Dictionary in the Mind
by YnitOcelot
Summary: 'Impassive – adj. incapable of emotion.'


The car engine thrums softly as it is manoeuvred down the road. Bright lampposts illuminate the pavements – empty and desolate in the late hours of the night. The houses dotted along the street are large and ornamental, the closest to country mansions that are possible in London. Tall stone walls separate the individual castles from the outside world. Inside sit men who are worth enough to have their own sturdy barriers from everyone else. The leather of the steering wheel is slick with sweat but I remain as cold as ice within.

**Impassive – **_adj. incapable of emotion._

I halt the car on the corner of the lane, the headlights illuminating another, similar road. This is not the one I want however and I plunge it back into darkness with a flick of my fingers. I slid from the car, running my hand over the roof. I pat it as if it was a living being, a loyal steed for a knight of old. I step away. A sharp breeze tries to tear its way inside my skin but my armour is too thick for it to penetrate. Bowing my head against it I walk towards the wall, my eyes scouring it for a weak spot.

**Stalk** – _v. _**1**_ to pursue stealthily. _**2 **_to follow and watch (someone) to the point of obsession._

There is a dent in the wall, probably caused by an out of control bicycle. It's small enough. I worm my foot into the gap and haul myself up. The stones are rough and the gaps tiny. I grip like grim death even though the barrier is no more than a metre and a half at most. As quietly as possible I scratch at the rocks, my breathing puffing in clouds in front of my face. Finally I straddle the wall, the night stretched out in front of me like an unrolled blanket. The stars are very bright.

**Trauma** – _n_. **1** _a disordered mental or behavioural state resulting from emotional stress or shock. _**2 **_a deeply shocking or distressing experience. _**3**_ in medicine, an injury, e.g. a wound._

The grass gleams moon-silver under my shoes as I walk carefully through the garden. The lights are all off inside the house and no one responds to my presence. The world seems frozen in time and I seem to have become a wraith of the night, gliding past decorative bushes and statues. Symbols of power and wealth which I have learned to scorn. I keep to the lawn, trusting in the trees to conceal me even though the drive running beside me in a long dark scarf would be easier to walk on. I reach the house in a matter of minutes and circle around, catching sight of myself, in the French windows.

**Commit **– _v_. **1** _to carry out (a wrong act)._ **2** _to oblige or bind (oneself) to a course or set of beliefs._ **3** _to place in a prison or psychiatric hospital._

The inside is resplendent in polished oak and red carpets. I step carefully around that, knowing what kind of traps could be hidden underneath the luxurious material. My footsteps are muffled and still no one has heard me. I come to a grand staircase and I stop to stare. It leads up to corridor. That's where he will be. I start to climb it, drawing my gun for the first time. It is heavy and cold in my hand, but its presence lightens my load. At the end of the corridor there is a door made of an expensive wood – perhaps ebony. I slow my pace and strain my ears for a whisper of movement. There. Someone is in that room. I stop and reach out a hand for the handle and only then I realise that my fingers are bleeding, the nails torn by my ascent over the first barrier.

**Avenge** – _v. to take vengeance on behalf of._

The man within spins in surprise and shock, turning to face me, a book slides out of his hands and onto his Persian rug. "Who are you?" he demands fiercely. He looks like a scholarly doctor and speaks with a clipped, English accent. A doctor he is, but not one who saves lives. "What are you doing here?" he demands again as I step inside, my gun trained on him. He gestures with his hands as he speaks; the long white fingers spread to their full. Those fingers had taken notes, held syringes, tested limits and transferred pain. This man knew breaking points of both bodies and minds. I raise the gun higher, centring it on him. "Who are you?" he commands, stepping forward. Dreamily, my finger contracts on the trigger – one, two, three times.

Benny, Bodie, Doyle.

Blood explodes from his stomach, the crimson burst splattering the plush surroundings with his deserved payment. He falls, tangling his legs in his white dressing gown, his body splayed with the violence of death. Slowly I walk over and kneel beside the body. His eyes are glazed and his mouth gapes in a scream that was never voiced. The long fingers are no longer white – not that they ever were. I cannot imagine the pain that they brought, cannot imagine the agony they possessed. The wail of sirens drifts past my ears but that is not important. There is one bullet left. I slip the barrel past my lips. The final word swirls in my mind.

**Justice** – _v. Murphy._


End file.
